


Order of Merlin

by everambling



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-19
Updated: 2014-01-22
Packaged: 2018-01-02 02:47:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1051619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everambling/pseuds/everambling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Did they really think the Statute of Secrecy could survive the war? In a time when the lines between the magical and Muggle worlds are blurred, magically generated virtual reality games are the latest craze. Too bad they didn't know how wildly Muggle technology could spin out of their control.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first scene of chapter was inspired by the september 12th post on tumblr blog livesandliesofwizards. Go check out the magnificence!

The entrance was dissimulated behind a statue of Millicent Bagnold, whose arm stretched nobly to the heavens, holding a wand aloft. Hermione had to flatten herself between the stone barrier and the wall of the alleyway behind Flourish & Blott’s and tap at the bricks one by one, up five, left three, down one. The brick melted away, allowing her passage inside a smoky vestibule lit by a solitary floating lightbulb.

And the bulb wasn’t even attached to anything, for heaven’s sake. That was just poor showmanship.

“Name?” rasped a young man in dragonhide without looking up. He flipped idly through a yellowing photo album plastered with moving pictures of youths in school uniform.

Hermione’s eyes traveled from his slicked back hair to the dark circles under his eyes, stunned.

“Justin?” she said. “Justin Finch-Fletchley?”

The man looked thrown off balance.

“Hermione Granger?” He dropped the book. “It’s—It’s an honor to have you here.”

“Justin, what are you doing here, working the door?”

A clipped silence greeted her question. The muted hum of synthetic bass floated through the wall, sending vibrations up her spine through the floor.

“I was told there was some sort of system to sort who’s allowed inside,” said Hermione bleakly.

“Oh.” Justin waved at the photo album. “Colin took a lot of photos of the DA that last year, when you and Potter and Weasley were gone. Rules are simple. You appear in any of the pictures, or you find someone who does to vouch for you, you’re in. You don’t... Well.”

Hermione stiffened. “You Obliviate people?”

“Shit, no. We send them away. This isn’t the war any longer.”

“Well, I won’t be in that book, I suppose.”

Justin scoffed. “You can come in. Open invitation for you and the other two. Not that you’ve ever taken advantage.”

Hermione nodded her thanks and Justin showed her through a set of charmed velvet curtains. She began to regret her decision to come here the minute she saw the crowded barroom on the other side. The smoke came in a spectrum of colors and the noise was a firestorm.  Waitresses in bikini tops woven from unicorn hair slid through the writhing press of bodies on the dance floor, incandescent, balancing drink trays on the tips of their wands. Corner booths charmed unnaturally dark housed half-Veela, half-Goblin parties along with every other permutation. The Muggles were easy to spot: they lingered along the periphery, trying to blend in and failing desperately. It was a bad scene.

Hermione coughed the smoke out of her face and plucked the Chocolate Frog card from her pocket; it was her own, with a message scrawled across the top in everlasting ink. An address and a time. And a short, cryptic line. It was the latter that had convinced her.

_If you want to solve the Riddle..._

Her eyes flitted over every table with distaste until they settled on the one in the far corner, where a familiar stoic figure sat looking wildly out of place. She scurried to join him, resigned to the awkwardness that was sure to follow. His jaw slackened when he saw her.

“Herm-own-inny,” he said, springing to his feet as she took a seat. Always the gentleman.

“It’s good to see you. I imagined I wouldn’t be the only one summoned, but I didn’t think _you_...”

He waved a Quidditch collectors’ card, special edition, briefly before her eyes. She caught the silvery blur inked over the picture.

“Vould you care for a drink?” he asked. “Vater, yes?”

She smiled. Of course he remembered.

As Viktor poured her water from a carafe into a spun-glass goblet, Hermione’s gaze drifted to the stage, where the black clad band members were playing distinctly Muggle instruments at an unreasonable volume. A pack of girls with charmed antlers and wings and false electrical wands scrambled up on stage and tore off their blouses. Viktor averted his eyes at once, but Hermione glanced up at the booth above the musicians. It was shielded from view by tinted glass. She thought she saw a shadow stir behind it.

“Who’s up there?” she asked.

“That’s the question, innit?”

The answer had come from a third addition to their table. Hermione was shocked to see George Weasley sitting down across from her, tie askew and eyes bloodshot.

“The Muggles reckon it’s some sort of cult,” George went on. “A ring of magical recluses running things behind the scenes, with beards and pointed hats and everything. They call it the Wizard of Oz—Yeah, figured you’d smile at that. Cracked dad up too when I mentioned it, whatever it means. Load of bollocks, of course. Five years since the Statute of Secrecy fell and the world still thinks we’ve all got warts on our noses and toads up our sleeves. Though to be fair, anyone who’s spent a bit of time in the Hog’s Head...”

“So who _is_ up there?”

George shrugged. His gaze was unfocused.

“When did you get here?” Hermione asked, concerned.

“Me? Been here all night. And every night before.” He raised his glass. “Cheers, eh? Where’s ickle Ronniekins tonight, by the way?”

“He wasn’t summoned. Obviously whoever is gathering us here values their secrecy.”

“And you held your tongue? Tsk, tsk, Hermione. A healthy relationship has no secrets.”

“You vill watch your tone,” growled Krum.

“A family squabble already, fantastic,” said a quiet voice, and Blaise Zabini joined their table with a disdain that suggested they might all have been sea slugs.

“How in Godric’s name did you get in here?” asked George belligerently.

Zabini did not deign to answer. He surveyed them all coolly, a slight grimace marring his features when he looked at Hermione. She knew him by reputation as one of the Ministry’s more insubordinate Unspeakables, but she also knew that he had not fought in the battle at Hogwarts. It threw her for a loop to see him here at their table.

“ _Let’s hear it for the Thestral Collective!_ ” an announcer bellowed into the microphone, and the crowd exploded into raucous applause. The band members swaggered off stage and settled at the table nearest Hermione’s party.

“Hang on,” she said, eyeing the offensive messages spray-painted across their outfits in disbelief. “Is... Is that Dennis Creevey? And Demelza Robins?”

“He goes by Darius Robins now,” George informed her. “The pair of them were there when Colin...” He drew a finger significantly across his throat. “They saw the whole thing. Went through a dark phase, turned a bit reactionary. Notice the sleeves.”

Hermione sniffed. It had come into great vogue immediately after the war to cut one’s left sleeve off at the elbow in order to demonstrate the absence of a dark mark. Twilfit & Tatting’s had even released a line of haute couture three-quarter sleeve dress robes, which had been all the rage at Ministry parties until Harry, Ron, and Hermione had walked into the annual Aurors’ ball with their heads held high, the only three persons in the room determinedly wearing full sleeves. The fashion had died out then in all but the most extreme of circles.

A cough alerted her to a new arrival at the table. Hermione looked up and nearly fell out of her chair.

Taking a seat to her left, and looking more uncomfortable than any human being she had ever seen in her life, was Dudley Dursley.

Zabini’s eyes narrowed. Viktor and George immediately drew their wands.

“Diagon’s open to everyone nowadays,” George hissed with startling venom. “Or don’t you remember which side won the war?” He clapped Dudley on the shoulder and the latter flinched, no doubt remembering an incident involving a toffee and his parents’ sitting room blown apart. “How’d you get in, mate?”

“It must have been Vane’s book,” Hermione supplied, because Dudley did not look in any fit state to speak. She could not help thinking on the biography of herself, Ron, and Harry with some satisfaction, as vile as it had been. It had quite knocked the wind out of Rita Skeeter. Unfortunately the whole thing had been such a flimsy concoction of gossip and lies that it had risen to number one on the _Prophet_ bestselling list in under a fortnight. The Dursleys—and anyone else associated with Harry—were a household name now.

“This has got to be everyone,” George observed. “How many bloody people can you summon on a day’s notice?” He raised his arm to hail a waitress. The girl had more piercings than Hermione could count in one go. Hermione saw George slide an obscene mound of gold into her apron as she deposited a round of shots on their table.

“This is, er, what, exactly?” asked Dudley in a very thin voice.

George’s eyes twinkled. “Viper’s brew. Ogden’s best firewhiskey, diluted snake venom, and powdered Billywig sting. It’s mental, you’ll see. But if you really want the good stuff you’ve got to go to the back room. They give you the stings fresh. Mix that with a Patented Daydream Charm and some of that white stuff the Muggles swear on and the high’ll last you hours—”

“Yes, _well_ ,” said Hermione pointedly. But it was too late. George had already knocked back his shot and, seeing that Hermione had pushed hers away firmly, taken hers as well.

“This,” said a rasping voice, “is an ill-fated beginning.”

He was wearing a hood. It hid his face from view and gave the lugubrious impression that they were being addressed by a disembodied entity. Hermione’s hand clenched around her wand in her pocket. It was a habit she still could not shake after five years.

“I presume each of you knows why I have called you here,” said their host. Male or female, Hermione could not tell. She launched immediately into an analysis of all the reasons their particular mismatched group could have been assembled, certain she could work out the answer. But to her amazement, it was Dudley who spoke first.

“We all play,” he said, staring down at his hands as though fearful of his own voice.

What in Merlin’s name? The others were all nodding.

“Correct,” said their host.

Impossible. Could they really be talking about that ridiculous game? It was Quidditch all over again. And here Hermione was, a lone dissenter among initiates in what amounted to little more than a bloody _boys’ club_. She could not believe she had wasted her time in coming here.

“Don’t tell me you’re talking about _Order of Merlin_?” she said, half scornful, half pleading.

“Right again,” said the host. “The cutting edge in cross-amplification technology. A triumphant marriage of magic and virtual reality. Played by more than eighty-three million people worldwide. You are all aware of the scope of this venture.”

“Wait just a moment,” Hermione interrupted. “ _I_ don’t play.”

Four pairs of eyes turned to gaze at her in astonishment.

“You’ve never played once?” said George. “You’ve _never_ logged on?”

“No. And I can’t say that I appreciate being lured here under false pretenses—”

“Hermione, it’s a whole other world in the game. It’s better than you can even imagine. There are no limits. Muggles can do magic. Wizards have made their careers as guides or slayers... Christ, legends have been born in the game. This one user, Tyson5058, they say he’s undefeated; they say he’s built himself an entire _city_.”

“Why don’t you ask him?” their host said smoothly, turning to face Dudley.

George’s jaw dropped.

“ _You’re_ Tyson5058?” he exclaimed. “You—You—”

Dudley’s eyes darted between George and the door. He looked terrified.

Their host chuckled. The sound raised the hairs on the nape of Hermione’s neck.

“If we might return to the matter at hand... Miss Granger, it is true that you do not play. However your knowledge of the Muggle world, along with your work in conjunction with the Auror Office and your near-perfect test scores—”

“How did you get a hold of my test scores?”

“—make you uniquely qualified for the venture I am proposing today.”

“Top of the class again,” said George, winking at her.

“Vot is this venture you speak of?” snapped Viktor, who did not appear to be taking to George very well.

“A problem has arisen inside the game.”

Viktor and Blaise stiffened. Hermione, however, looked beyond them to a table at the other end of the room. An absurdly famous Muggle actor had just taken a seat under a cut glass chandelier, affecting a lack of concern at his surroundings. Hermione saw a pair of middle-aged wizards in _Werewolf and Proud_ t-shirts elbowing one another and snickering.

She did not want to be here.

“I don’t see what any of this has to do with solving the Riddle,” she said, attempting to inject some sense back into the proceedings.

She was met with blank stares.

“Riddle!” Hermione exploded. “ _Tom_ Riddle! The message implied something to do with him. I thought that was clear!”

The tables nearest them had gone oddly quiet.

“You don’t want to go using that name here,” said Zabini.

“Oh, let’s not start on _that_ again,” said Hermione angrily. “I think we’ve all learned how far fear of a name can go.”

But the _Werewolf and Proud_ wizards were glaring her way now. Hermione forced her hands to stop trembling.

“The Riddle,” said their host, “is a matter of concern within the game. Its creator wrote a particular program intended to challenge its most experienced players. Unfortunately the program shows signs of having gained sentience. It must be subdued. It is my aim to put together an expert team capable of entering the game and subduing the program—nicknamed Riddle, a rather tasteless joke I’ll admit—by covert means.”

“Why are you not approaching Aurors for this?” asked Viktor.

“Nine out of ten Aurors tested as dreadfully inept in matters of virtual reality. Harry Potter himself did not even know how to log on...”

Hermione opened her mouth to protest the slight on Harry, but was distracted as several things happened at once. First, the Werewolf and Proud wizards made a beeline for her in earnest. Second, the door to the glass-fronted booth above the stage opened and a tall, familiar looking man emerged, drawing gasps all around. Third, Hermione jumped to her feet and pulled out her wand.

Viktor stood at once behind her. Dudley let out a frightened little yelp.

“Would you look at that,” slurred George. “The bastard himself.”

“He’s running this place?” said Hermione, stunned.

“Figures. It’s his only way in. He’d never get to hang around our lot otherwise. Who’d have him in their flat or at their parties? I’ll give it to the Malfoys, they always did know how to buy their way in.”

Draco Malfoy descended from the booth and strode across the room, taking as little notice of the whispers and stares as if he were alone. As he strode past, the men advancing on Hermione retreated into the shadows.

He came to a halt at their table with his face an inscrutable blank.

“M—Malfoy,” said Hermione numbly. She did not quite know whether she was infuriated or merely amazed by his appearance.

“You can’t be here,” he drawled, looking directly at her. Hermione noticed that he and Zabini avoided looking at one another very carefully.

“Excuse me,” said Hermione, drawing herself up to full height. “I fought in a war to be able to step foot wherever I please, and I have the scars to prove it—”

“No, you _can’t_ be here. This place isn’t what it used to be. It’s only those looking for trouble who come here now, and they always find it. You’re conspicuous.”

Hermione was drawn up short by the warning.

“I don’t want my bar closed down because of some brawl over Potter’s pet,” Malfoy added. It was an afterthought, not nearly snide enough.

“I—Thank you,” she muttered.

Malfoy rolled his eyes and swept away. Hermione hurried after him and caught his sleeve, spinning him back around.

“Wait! I have a favor to ask.”

“Are you out of your damn mind?”

“ _Malfoy._ ”

Something in her tone must have actually given him pause. He crossed his arms and watched her with ill-concealed irritation.

“Don’t let George in here anymore,” said Hermione.

Malfoy’s lips thinned, but after a moment he gave a curt nod and strode back up to his booth.

When Hermione returned to her table George and Viktor were engaged in a heated debate over whether to trust their host.

“... do not know vot he really wants or even who he is—”

“Who gives a leprechaun’s tit? This is a chance to—”

“If I might be allowed to interject,” said the host patiently. “My reason for desiring to correct the error within the game is simple.”

He drew back his hood. Hermione gasped.

“Celsus Macmillan!” she said. “You _created_ Order of Merlin.”

“I thought you didn’t play?” mumbled George.

It took some effort not to roll her eyes. _Honestly_. Everyone knew Celsus Macmillan for the most famous Squib in Britain. He had risen to notoriety at an astronomical speed after the war thanks to the success of the game. He seemed to find some amusement in her irritation. He had fair, almost translucent skin, and shrewd eyes. Hermione saw a wand holstered at his belt, ornate and polished and utterly useless to him. She felt a pang of sympathy.

“As you have been advised to leave the establishment,” he said, “I shall wrap up the proceedings. You all have one week to decide whether you wish to be involved in this venture. I shall rely on your discretion in the meantime. Think carefully on my offer. The risks are minimal. Payment will be in the realm of five figures, which you may consider, Miss Granger, is a sum that could seriously help that foundering elf organization of yours.”

He rose and nodded politely to each of them in turn. Then he was gone in a swish of cloak, leaving behind five very perturbed companions.

***

“No _way_ ,” said Ron. “You met Celsus Macmillan?”

Hermione clicked her tongue, exasperated.

“That’s hardly the salient point,” she said.

“But he’s—he’s the richest bloke in Europe.”

“So they say.”

“This cloak and dagger business,” said Harry pensively, “with the cards and the secret meetings... I don’t like it.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell us you’d been summoned in the first place,” Ron added.

“I told you, I thought I might miss my chance to participate if I told anyone.”

“This is just like the thing with the time turner...”

Hermione threw a Chocolate Frog at him. The three of them were lounging on the floor of Harry’s new, unfurnished manor in Godric’s Hollow. For some reason, Harry had invited them over to enlist their help in blasting apart the cupboard under the stairs with as violent a series of spells as possible.

“But saying I did join this group and go inside the game,” said Hermione more seriously. “What are the rules? How does it work?”

“I’ve only played once,” said Harry. “It’s a dangerous sort of thing. Like the Mirror of Erised. You can do anything in there and it doesn’t matter. If you die in the game, you just wake up. It’s like a drug.”

“It’s brilliant, though,” Ron interjected. “But Harry’s right. Why all the secrecy?”

“I suppose he’s got his eccentricities,” said Hermione dubiously. “This is the same Celsus Macmillan who had a fifty foot portrait of himself commissioned by house elves in 1985...”

“I dunno. First hint of anything dodgy and you’ll let us know, yeah?”

Hermione smiled affectionately at Ron. “Of course. But I’m not quite sure I even ought to do it. Computer games really aren’t my thing.”

“I still can’t believe Dudley was there,” said Harry, shaking his head.

“You’ve got to do it,” said Ron. “Five figures, Hermione. Hell, you could stop working late hours planning all those SPEW galas.”

“It’s not SPEW, it’s S.P.E.W.”

“Nine years on and you really think I’m ever going to get it right?”

“I’ll do it,” Hermione decided. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

***

They stood in a plain Muggle hangar, Hermione anxious, George hangdog, Dudley rather green. Viktor and Zabini were unreadable. Hermione went over again in her head the many pages of instructions on how to play. She had bought enough user’s manuals to fill an entire bookshelf. It all seemed to amount to creativity and rapid reflexes. The game had a way of channeling magic into electrical impulses, which gave wizards and witches a distinct edge. And yet through sheer strength of numbers, Muggles had banded together and formed alliances. They had found ways of hacking into the source code of the game to program their own magic of a sort. Of course, the game was designed to allow them to do this. Still, it was yet another example of the ingenuity fostered by a lack of magical ability.

“Now,” said Macmillan, striding back and forth before them like a general preparing his troops for battle, “we’re going to upload you straight to level ninety-four. Normally you’d start at level one and build your characters from there, but given the paucity of time, we’ve prepared your characters in advance. They’re simply composite versions of your present selves. You’ll have access to unlimited funds and weapons. We’re giving you free reign. But that doesn’t mean you get to make a spectacle of yourselves. No showing off. Dursley, this especially goes for you. Your alternate persona is a big name in Order of Merlin. You’re not to reveal to anyone who you are.”

Dudley nodded, looking increasingly ill.

“You may take your places,” Macmillan announced.

Hermione sat back in an uncomfortable titanium chair. Immediately, glowing red bands like jets from a stupefaction curse encircled her wrists, shackling her to the chair. She felt magic hum through her. Without warning a needle pierced her right arm, and she felt a numbing cold spread out from the spot of contact.

“Muscle relaxant,” Macmillan explained. “Otherwise your body would attempt to act out every action performed by your consciousness while inside the game.

A pimply youth in a hoodie and backwards hat emerged to plug wires connected to each of their chairs into wall outlets. Then he turned to them and raised his wand. It made sense, given that Macmillan himself could not do it. Still, after all their de-briefings, their instructional sessions, it seemed a little anticlimactic to be uploaded by a boy who hardly looked old enough to drive.

“As you know, should you need to contact me for any reason while within the game, you may use the regular electronic communication channels,” Macmillan told them. “I will be at your disposal night and day. Good luck.”

“ _Cerebus obnoxiam,_ ” cried the boy in the hoodie.

Hermione’s eyes snapped shut. She felt a sickening pull somewhere in the vicinity of her stomach, followed by an infernal noise that must surely pierce right through her eardrums and turn her brain to jelly. She made to scream, but found she could not open her mouth. This was worse than Apparition, a hundred times worse. She was lost, adrift, floating dizzyingly through the infinite emptiness... Until, just as suddenly, her feet were planted firmly on the ground.

She opened her eyes.

“Nice night for it,” said George.

They were standing in the middle of Diagon Alley as Hermione had never seen it. It was real, so _real_. She could taste the air, feel the cloth of her robes beneath her fingers, hear the high whine of a thousand electronic devices blaring from every shop window. These were more advanced than anything existing in the real world. People walked past—some _flew_ past, on broomsticks or carpets or even skateboards—holding translucent screens whose contents they dictated merely by touching their fingers to the surface. Buildings rose fifty stories high on either side of the alley, their flashing neon signs advertising potions ingredients and computer repair alike. It was every science fiction movie she had ever seen, amplified tenfold.

“God,” said Hermione.

“Right,” said a clear, decisive voice behind her. “Time to set up a base. And a plan of attack.”

The rest of the group looked in amazement at Dudley. He was holding himself upright and smiling, in stark contrast to his attitude from their first meeting. He looked more comfortable than any of them inside the game.

Zabini did not look at all pleased at being given orders by a Muggle. But George forestalled him.

“Lead the way,” he told Dudley.

Hermione could only follow, mute with awe. She simply could not believe how real it all seemed. Harry had been right. People could lose themselves in this.

“Welcome to Order of Merlin,” George told her knowingly, waving her on down the alley.


	2. ii

The first establishment they came to was a lavish nightclub masquerading as a chip shop. The outside was unkempt at best, bedecked with feebly blinking neon signs. The inside was a vast chrome wonderland that shook in time with the music blasting through the walls. Hermione spotted Muggles with their hair in spikes drinking potions they were almost certainly constitutionally incapable of processing. A number of what she was quite certain were harpies crowded the dance floor, accompanied by a goblin breathing fire. Shimmering technicolor clouds hung low over the crowd by the bar—presumably of the hallucinogenic variety, given that those who fell under their influence were speaking animatedly to themselves.

“Why are we here?” Hermione asked George. It was doubtful that he could hear her over the thrum of the music, but he read her lips.

“Looking for clues,” he shouted back. “This place usually gets hit about once a fortnight. It’s due.”

“Hit?”

No sooner had she asked than a tremendous crash was heard overhead, and the ceiling was quite abruptly _ripped_ away to reveal a fully grown Antipodean Opaleye dragon. The beast flapped its great, leathery wings once, twice, three times, sending gusts of air sweeping through the club. Hermione saw a number of wizards draw their wands and tap them boredly against their knees, remaining seated. A Muggle woman with more nose rings than teeth was typing something into a keyboard strapped to her arm; the air around her was becoming more opaque somehow, as though an intangible shield had materialized. This must have been an example of Muggles hacking into the source code of the game to their advantage. And still no one ran.

 _It isn’t real_ , Hermione reminded herself. _None of this is real._

It certainly felt real when the Opaleye reared back and breathed a twenty foot fountain of fire upon the crowd. One of the Muggles’ hair caught aflame, and a witch nearby flicked her wand idly to extinguish it.

What were they waiting for?

The answer to Hermione’s question arrived in eight feet of shrieking, galloping glory. Hermione watched in astonishment as a centaur with a pretty face and long black hair came barrelling out of a back room at top speed, brandishing a wand set in a holster fastened to her arm. In her other hand she held a broadsword that would have crushed Hermione flat had she tried lifting it.

The Opaleye roared and snarled. The centaur came to a halt directly beneath the dragon and squared her shoulders, a clear signal: _do your worst_.

The broadsword must have been imbued with some sort of shield charm, because the second blast of dragon fire bounced right off it like a flurry of paper aeroplanes. The Opaleye beat its claws against the edge of the broken ceiling in fury, but it was too large to burrow its way down. The centaur aimed a curse straight between its eyes that missed narrowly, angering it further.

The next jet of flame came streaming across the room towards Hermione. She felt Viktor collide with her, pushing her down against the ground to avoid the fire. Dudley sprang onto a table with surprising agility and tapped a keyboard on his forearm similar to the other Muggle woman’s: instantly, a wall of three inch glass appeared before him. Without missing a beat, Hermione rolled out of her fall and cast a shield charm around George and Zabini. The fire broke against the invisible barrier, hissing tongues of flame looking for a way through and then dying out, defeated.

“It’s not real,” Hermione reminded Viktor, who was panting beside her.

“A vound in the game veakens your resistance,” he replied. “Important to be ready for anything.”

While they spoke, the centaur had circled and climbed atop the reflective chrome bar. From there she was able to hit the Opaleye between the eyes with a stinging hex. The dragon growled in pain and flew away in a deafening flap of wings, leaving a preternatural stillness in his wake. The music was still blaring, but all eyes were on the centaur.

George turned to wink at Hermione.

“Wait here,” he instructed. He strode over to the centaur, who greeted him with a warm smile. The exchange between them was not animated enough that Hermione could discern what was being said at a distance, but she saw George give a rueful smile and shrug. He leaned forward to whisper something in the centaur’s ear, and the latter rolled her eyes at him. George returned looking resigned, and motioned for them to leave the club.

“No go,” he told the group once they had resumed their exploration of the Alley. “Slayers usually hear what’s new on the circuit before anyone else, and she hasn’t heard a word about this Riddle problem.”

“Was that...” Hermione shook her head in disbelief. “Back there—Was that _Cho Chang_?”

George grinned. “The one and only.”

“Why was she...?”

“Half horse? Well, she’s used to turning heads, isn’t she? Only in here, anyone can be anything. Stunning looks, perfect body; all it takes is a handful of Knuts to buy the programming. I suppose she wanted to make an impression. You’d think it would make _certain activities_ difficult, but actually I’ve discovered—”

Hermione cleared her throat loudly and glared at him. His eyes twinkled.

“This is all very entertaining,” said Zabini with liberal irony, “but you’ll notice we’re no closer to making progress.”

“’S fine,” George said. “I know somewhere else we can go to regroup, plan our next move. It’s the best location in the whole Alley.”

Dudley made a noncommittal noise.

“Do you have a better idea?” George asked. There was nothing confrontational in his tone. He sounded genuinely eager for Dudley’s input.

“No,” said Dudley after a moment’s consideration. “It’s secure enough. We can power up there. Then we head South.”

“South?” George’s eyes widened. “ _Oh_. Oh, you’re good. Damn good. Listen, is it true you have your own private city somewhere in OM?”

Dudley shrugged. “Not really. But I have the key to London. I let people think what they want, though. It only helps my game.”

Hermione, who was following barely a fifth of the conversation, tuned out their voices and continued to observe and catalog every storefront. It was scintillating, metropolitan marvel and a Dickensian labyrinth combined. She wondered whether she ought to have taken an interest in Order of Merlin before, if only to observe the sociological ramifications. Here were Muggles and wizards coexisting on even footing: everything she had fought for during the war. Then she stopped and looked up in awe at what she could only assume was their destination.

“Still the most successful joke shop in Britain,” said George proudly, beaming up at the Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes banner fluttering above them. On one side of the entrance the magical displays popped and whirred, while on the other a whole range of sleek electronic devices had been added. “Come on. The club’s above stairs.”

They followed George up a narrow staircase to what had once been the Weasley twins’ old flat. George had converted the space to a bustling, smoky pub filled with the jangling of an old-fashioned piano. A heavily made up Hannah Abbot, dressed in a minuscule, spangled prohibition-era outfit, sat atop the instrument tracing fluorescent patterns in the air with her wand. At her side, Oliver Wood was plying her with goblets of neon liquor.

“Most of the old _Potterwatch_ crew hangs around here,” George announced, waving off the enthusiastic greetings of a gaggle of young Aurors. “You won’t find a keener lot when it comes to defending the premises. We’ll be safe to power up.”

“Power up?” said Hermione. She did not think she had ever been the least knowledgeable member of a party before. It sat ill.

“Like sleeping, more or less,” George explained. “You plug into the mainframe and it replenishes your energy levels. Also, it syncs you up with any changes made in programming since your entry into the game.”

“Incredible,” Hermione muttered. “You could practically live in here forever.”

“Well, you normally pay for a predetermined amount of time. If you buy up seven days, the game automatically logs you out, back to the real world, after a week. Or if you ask for an emergency extraction. In our case, as we’ve got unlimited time, that’s what we’ll do once the mission’s complete.”

“How do you ask for an emergency extraction?”

“Press your mark,” Dudley answered while George disappeared through a side door. In response to Hermione’s questioning look, he tapped his arm.

Hermione rolled up her right sleeve and grimaced. A button in the shape of a crimson lion inlaid with computer wiring had appeared on the inside of her wrist. She supposed Zabini’s must be a snake, and could only imagine how the association must have taunted him.

“House ties are a strong determinant in OM allegiances,” George told her, returning from the other room. “But you can get it changed, for a price. Muggles have their choice of symbol.” He nodded at the side door. “It’s ready.”

The adjacent room was much quieter, to Hermione’s relief. Only a pair of young witches sat in a corner, heads slumped on each other’s shoulder, deep in slumber. George gestured to a row of cots lined up against the wall. On each of them sat a pair of chainless manacles hovering an inch above the pillows. Hermione sat at the edge of her cot and fastened her pair around her wrists with some apprehension.

“They run adverts through your head while you sleep,” George warned. “That’s how they fund their servers.”

Hermione looked to the others to see if they shared in her dismay, but Zabini, Viktor, and Dudley had already activated the little switch on the side of their manacles and collapsed back against their pillows, as if someone had disengaged their nervous system. It was a disconcerting sight.

“It’ll be fine, Hermione,” said George easily, crossing his arms behind his head and giving her a crooked smile. “You can stop worrying. Nothing can get to us in here.”

Hermione contemplated him, feeling much more weary than she ought.

“George,” she said quietly, “how do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“You know... Act so airy and cheerful. Like nothing’s wrong. When—” She could not quite bring herself to say _When Fred isn’t here with you_.

His smile tightened around the edges, but he gave no other indication of being affected by her words.

“Drugs and women,” he told her with a wicked gleam in his eye. “Works wonders. You should really try it. The drugs, I mean. Unless you _want_ to try women too, in which case I fully endorse—”

“ _George_.”

He laughed softly. “Night, Hermione.”

With an inexplicable feeling of foreboding, Hermione flipped the switch on her manacles... And the world vanished instantly.

_She was on her back on a cold steel table, needles embedded in her spine, a curious blue fluid swirling around her. She could not feel the tips of her fingers. Her eyes were closed, and it was impossible to open them, try as she might._

_She could hear voices nearby. Garbled. Unintelligible. The droning voices of hungry ghouls, drawing nearer. She caught a string of words that made dread rise inside her, though she knew not why._

_She was frozen. Everything was cold and slow-moving and she could see harsh floodlights dancing behind her eyelids._

_She was—_

Hermione gasped and opened her eyes. Dudley was standing over her wearing a look of mild impatience.

“The others’ve already started mapping out our next route—” he began.

“What the hell _was_ that?” Hermione interrupted, sitting up so quickly that stars burst across her vision.

A look of understanding came slowly into Dudley’s eyes. “Oh. Did you get the advert for marital aids? Those take a bit of getting used to...”

“No, I didn’t get any adverts. I got—It was—”

How did she even describe it? Already the wisps of clarity were evaporating, and she could hardly remember what had transpired in her dream. The last vestiges were escaping her. Had there been needles? Strange voices?

“It’s a lot to process at first,” said Dudley with a touch of condescension. “Come on. It’s almost time to go.”

Frowning, Hermione removed her manacles and allowed herself to be led into the main barroom, where the night patrons had vanished. Only George, Viktor, and Zabini remained, sharing a rather tense breakfast by the piano. She was too preoccupied to pay much attention to the piece of toast George handed her, until she tasted the raspberry marmalade and gasped.

It was the best tasting marmalade she’d ever had in her life. All her senses were on overload. She felt as though she could taste the sunbeams that had fed the raspberry plant from a seed. Someone must have thought themselves clever and messed around with the sensory input settings of players in the game.

“Merlin,” she said.

“Fun, isn’t it? _Everything_ is more intense here,” George told Hermione with a meaningful look.

She glared at him until he looked away.

“I don’t like it,” she said resolutely. “This all feels exactly like the sort of dark pull Voldemort used to draw people in in the first place.”

“Vot do you mean by that?” asked Viktor sharply.

“Well, it’s intoxicating, isn’t it? All this freedom and luxury. People looking and acting however they like. It’s the same as the nonsense about pure blood: the idea grabbed people. They thought they were special, that they could rule over others. That they _should_. But it wasn’t real. There’s no such thing as pure blood. Just like all _this_ , this game, isn’t real.”

Zabini had looked away sourly, but Viktor and George were listening with faint interest, so she went on, “It’s uncanny.”

“Uncanny?” Dudley repeated, blinking his incomprehension.

“It’s an old concept of Freud’s. Sigmund Freud, the Muggle psychologist,” Hermione added when George and Viktor looked utterly lost (Dudley did not look as though he understood her meaning either, for that matter). “The idea is that our minds are most frightened by that which they both do and don’t recognize. Something the subconscious has repressed but which resurfaces, for instance. Or if you see someone across a room who looks almost, but not quite, like a childhood friend, and you feel a chill go down your spine... That’s what this game reminds me of. It’s like the real world, but not exactly. It feels dangerous.”

“It’s not,” Dudley replied blankly, and it was clear that he had not taken in a word she had said. “If you die in OM, you just wake up in the real world. There’s no danger.”

Hermione was about to argue that this was not really her point when there was a drawn-out cry of anguish from somewhere outside in the Alley. She sprang to her feet, wand at the ready.

“What was that?” she asked squeakily.

“Probably Snatchers,” said Dudley at once.

“ _Snatchers?_ ”

George sighed and got to his feet. “See for yourself.”

Hermione followed him down to the first landing and out into the Alley. There, slumped on the ground near the shop’s front stoop, was a man whose very corporeality appeared to be disintegrating. Oddly exact, angular chunks of his body were lighting up, flickering, then vanishing, leaving behind only empty space. The man was twitching and spasming, his eyes rolling back in his head. The Alley was sparsely populated at this hour, and the few passers-by in the vicinity averted their eyes, shuffling away rapidly.

Hermione dropped to her knees at the man’s side and attempted various spells to ease his convulsions, to no avail. She felt queasy.

“You can’t help him,” said George in a dispassionate voice, though he looked a little sickened. “He’ll be gone in a couple of minutes. Nothing to be done.”

“What happened?”

“They go around pilfering segments of users’ source codes to use as a substitute for upgrades.”

“But he’ll be all right?” said Hermione in a high pitched voice.

“’Course. He’ll wake up in the real world in a bit. It’s supposed to be a very unpleasant process, though. Sort of like the Cruciatus.”

Hermione clenched her fists, blinking back tears.

“And the people who do this call themselves Snatchers?” she asked shakily. White-hot anger bubbled in her stomach.

It was Zabini who raised an ironic eyebrow and said, “Apt, isn’t it?”

“It’s not amusing in the slightest,” Hermione spat at him. In her mind’s eye she saw herself running desperately through the forest with Harry and Ron, expecting at any moment to be struck down by a curse, with Fenrir Greyback cackling madly behind her.

“No, hang on,” Dudley interrupted.

He crouched down next to the man and typed something into the keyboard on his forearm. A translucent schematic appeared in midair, showing a series of numbers streaming past at a dizzying speed. Dudley seemed to take this all in stride.

“This wasn’t the usual gang,” he said, frowning. “I have a crew that keeps tabs on the Snatchers.”

“To what purpose?” asked Viktor.

“They pay me a tax and I don’t interfere with their activities as long as they keep it to a maximum of three takedowns a month.” Seeing Hermione’s look of horrified reproach he set his jaw. “It’s better than letting them run wild. They’ll get into the game either way.”

“If this wasn’t the work of Snatchers, then who did it?” asked Zabini impatiently.

“I don’t know.”

“That’s worrying,” said George. “D’you think—”

“It could be a lead,” Dudley agreed. “We should follow the trail.”

“Vot trail?”

Hermione could not remember Viktor being so confrontational. Nor could she reconcile George looking at the twitching, suffering man on the ground without emotion. She shuddered. The game really was toxic.

“I’m tracking it,” said Dudley, still typing away at his keyboard. At last a flashing blue arrow appeared in midair and pointed them in the direction of—

“Knockturn Alley?” said Hermione anxiously.

“Nothing for it,” said George. “There are five of us, we won’t be bothered too much if we go in there.”

The men began to move in the direction indicated by the arrow. Hermione bit her lip, assailed by nagging doubt she could not put her finger on. Something was wrong.

Then she had it.

“Wait!” she cried out. “It’s too obvious.”

“Come again?” said George, confused.

“Knockturn Alley. Why would anyone commit a crime in plain view of the Alley that anyone with a bit of expertise can tell was committed by a more sinister party than the usual street thugs, then go hide in the most well-known haunt of dodgy characters in London? For anyone on their trail, that’s the first place they’d look. It’s a false trail.”

“But the crime _vos_ committed in the middle of the Alley,” Viktor pointed out. “This person _vanted_ to be known.”

“Exactly. This is a test. Dudley, is it possible there’s a bit of... Oh I don’t know, hidden information somewhere in the remaining source code you examined? A secret cache with different directions?”

“Actually, yes,” said Dudley enthusiastically, typing so fast his fingers were a blur. “Just a mo’... Yes, I’ve got it!”

The blue arrow swiveled in mid-air. It was now pointing away from the Alley towards a side road that ended in a deserted cul-de-sac. The men immediately rushed to the area and began to inspect every inch of the dilapidated stone walls surrounding it, but Hermione took the express route and merely cast _Homenum Revelio_.

“There’s a portal here somewhere,” she announced.

Four pairs of eyes turned to look at her, incredulous.

“How do you know that?” asked Dudley aggressively.

“Because there are five of us, but my spell just registered nearly a dozen people.”

George grinned. “Ron was right. Brightest witch in the room even when you don’t know what you’re doing.”

With a few keystrokes Dudley managed to locate the portal. A powder blue doorway flickered into existence before them with only an impenetrable expanse of darkness visible on the other side.

“I’ve only seen one of these before,” said Dudley. “When I was recruited to the Priori Guild.”

“You were recruited to the Guild?” George exclaimed. “They practically _built_ level twelve! I’ve never even spoken to—” Catching sight of Hermione’s expression, he cut himself off. “Right. Maybe another time.”

Hermione took a deep breath and made to walk through the portal, but Viktor threw out an arm to stop her.

“I’m perfectly capable—” she began, annoyed, but Viktor placated her with a serious look.

“I know you are,” he said.

He walked through. After a few moments George followed, then Dudley. Hermione glanced at Zabini.

“Ladies first,” he said quietly, the corners of his mouth twitching.

Hermione rolled her eyes and walked through, Zabini following closely behind her. They emerged in the middle of the street in a quiet rural town where chimneys ought to have puffed friendly clouds of white smoke and cars puttered by at a safe speed. Instead, this version of the town featured garishly painted automobiles zooming past overhead and youth dueling in the streets.

“Vere are we?” asked Viktor.

Hermione sighed. “I take it none of you have been to Little Hangleton before? Birthplace of Merope Gaunt and Tom Riddle, Sr.”

“Damn,” said George, grimacing.

“Yes, quite.” Steeling herself, Hermione added, “I suppose it only makes sense to visit the graveyard.”

The party trouped through the streets with ill grace until they reached the ancient graveyard, where headstones had been converted, to Hermione’s horror, into giant plasma screens sticking out of the ground. The images on the screens appeared to show stock television footage of any available moments of the deceased’s lives.

“Who’s idea was this?” asked Hermione, examining one of the screens with distaste.

“Actually, Granger,” said a familiar drawling voice behind her, “it was mine. And it made a fortune.”

Hermione whipped around and gasped. They were now surrounded by five figures in Death Eater cloaks, all of whom had their wands drawn. It was impossible to tell who the rest were through their masks, but Hermione had recognized the voice.

“Malfoy?”

“Fell for the bait in no time,” Malfoy announced to the others. “What did I say?”

“What are you doing?” Hermione asked. “You—At the bar back in the real world...”

“I warned you to get out while you had the chance, Granger.”

Zabini was staring at Malfoy with a peculiar sort of intensity, as though he hoped to burn holes through his mask with his eyes. He was trembling. Behind him, Dudley was holding his forearm behind his back in order to hide his keyboard. Hermione could see him typing something at top speed. She hoped he had a plan, and a good one. There was no sense trying to Disapparate: the Death Eaters were sure to have warded the place.

“What do you want?” Hermione spat.

“Use that oversized brain of yours,” Malfoy drawled pointedly, and was it her imagination or was there an undercurrent of something like earnest warning in his voice? She could not shake the sense that he was trying to communicate something more with her than the words he was speaking. “Aren’t you here to solve the Riddle?”

“What?” How did he know about the Riddle program? This was very, very bad.

Hermione glanced at Dudley again, just in time to see him give her a small nod.

“PROTEGO TOTALUM!” she screamed.

The swiftness of her shield charm knocked several of the Death Eaters off their feet. If a year on the run from Voldemort had imparted her with anything, it was a remarkable talent when it came to protective enchantments.

Unfortunately, the Death Eater to Malfoy’s left had leapt forward a moment before she cast her charm, and now found himself within the protective bubble while the others snarled in fury and attempted to curse their way in. Hermione cast Incarcerous at him and missed by inches. His answering spell grazed her cheek, and she felt blood trickle down her face.

George launched himself at the Death Eater and the pair of them toppled to the ground in a flurry of mingled punches and curses. Viktor was attempting to reinforce Hermione’s shield charm against the other Death Eaters’ intrusions. Zabini, inexplicably, was still staring at Malfoy with wide eyes.

“Dudley!” Hermione shrieked.

“It’s not working!” said Dudley in a panic, hammering at his keyboard. “We were supposed to be transported away from here. I don’t understand.”

On the ground, George had managed to pry off his Death Eater’s mask. The hood fell back to reveal a young man with black hair and handsome features. Hermione thought he looked vaguely familiar, but just now she could not place him. To her alarm, George staggered back and began to scramble away from the Death Eater.

“What’s going on?” asked Hermione.

George’s eyes were wild with fear. “I—I don’t know. He must have confunded me or... I don’t know.”

“All right, that’s it,” Hermione decided, aiming a stunner at the dark haired Death Eater that caused the rock behind his head to explode into dust. “This is mad. We can re-upload ourselves later, but for now, we need to get out of here. I’m not watching anyone get tortured, no matter if it’s real or not.”

“Herm-own-inny—” Viktor began warningly, and she saw that he knew what she was planning.

“Do you trust me?” she asked, looking him in the eye.

The edge in his expression broke and he pulled back his sleeve. Catching on, George, Zabini, and Dudley did the same. They pressed the buttons on their wrists in unison, and Hermione closed her eyes, readying herself for a dizzying lurch back to the real world.

Nothing happened.

She opened her eyes.

“What?” She pressed the button again several times, without effect. “Why isn’t it working?”

Dudley swore under his breath.

From beyond the barrier of the shield charm, Malfoy sneered at them.

“The Riddle has claimed you,” he said. “You can’t get out now.”


End file.
